Jeremiah tried not to laugh, but the effort rocked him back, butt square on the floor. He didn’t just laugh, he guffawed, pulling the boy into his lap, and gathered his little feet into one hand while he circled the child with his other arm. “Yep, you can help me milk Tulip. She’ll be telling us to hurry on out there anytime now.” He gave Belle a wink. “We’ll be talking about this again. You can count on it.” He surged to his feet, child in his arms. “You cannot milk a cow in your nightshirt. It just ain’t proper.”
He turned to smile at Belle. “I’ll be back.”
After brushing off Tulip’s udder, he sat down, put the bucket between his knees, and planted his forehead in her flank. “This is the way you sit when you milk. Then, using two hands, you squeeze and release, pulling down gently at the same time. Like this, see?” The milk began squirting into the bucket. Once he’d milked so the bottom of the bucket was covered, he motioned Abel to come beside him. “Now you lean in here and put your hand on one teat, and I’ll put my hand over yours.” When the milk again squirted into the bucket, now foaming, Abel giggled.
“Feels warm and funny.”
“That it does. Okay, tomorrow you can sit on the stool and try it. You pretend with me now. Right hand, left hand.” The milk music picked up again. Nosey bawled from the pen where she now lived. “Right hand, left hand.”
“Milking is hard work.”
“Not so much after your arms and hands get used to it.” When he’d finished, he stood and hung the stool back up on the peg on the wall. “Now you feed Nosey.” He poured milk into another bucket.
Abel held the bucket in place and stuck his fingers down in the milk, and when Nosey remembered what she was supposed to do, she found his fingers and sucked away.
“Tonight you take your fingers away and see if she will do it alone.”
Abel nodded and, when the bucket was empty, carried it into the house. “I did it. I sorta milked, and I fed Nosey. She likes my fingers.” He looked down his arm and frowned. “I got my sleeve wet.”
“Milk will wash out. I’m proud of you.”
“When I can milk, you won’t have to.”
“That’s right.”
Jeremiah poured the milk through a towel into a kettle. “You want this by the fire, too?”
“Yes, please. The mush is ready.”
Abel went to the window. “The sun is shining.”
“I know. You need to bring in some wood.”
While he did that, Jeremiah looked at Belle. “We need to talk.”
She nodded. “That we do.”
At least she looked more agreeable, he thought, puffing a sigh. “I’ll sharpen the knives to cut the meat, and then we can let it freeze outside tonight. Tonight we’ll talk.”
She didn’t smile when she nodded.
Maybe he didn’t really want to talk, he thought. He might not like her answers.
Chapter 9
We have to talk. Jeremiah had talked too much already, way too much. Love her? He respected her, was proud of her, liked her and her fiery stubbornness. But love? He didn’t even know what love was, not really. His mother bore his father ten kids, but did she love him? She called him that hateful man on more than one occasion. She got angry at him.
And Jeremiah was angry with this Belle Stedman right now. Her stubbornness endangered herself and her children. Endangered her man-cub Abel and her helpless baby. Maybe she didn’t have any love. But no, that was foolish thinking. He thought about her gentle touch, the way she spoke to Abel, the way she cuddled her tiny girl. No, she was full of love. Just not for him.
He tossed Sanchez some hay and rubbed the nose of his easygoing old roan. But the horse was more interested in the hay than in his master just now. He dropped his grizzled head to the ground and began munching and crunching supper.
The last traces of sun were entirely gone, inside the barn and out. Jeremiah groped his way through the darkness down the rough-hewn stanchions to the door and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. There they were back again, the auroras, the mysterious, shimmering curtains moving among the stars.
Did anyone have any idea how or why those things appeared? They did not occur in Texas. That was for sure. Did the snow and the piercing cold play a part?
Who cared, really? There they were. Ignore ’em, admire ’em, but just don’t pick ’em apart.
The path along the rope strung from the barn to the house had been packed down solid. It was part level track, part ice. He stomped the snow off his boots, rapped on the door, and entered.
Abel stirred on his pallet, but he was asleep. Belle was nearly asleep. Wrapped in a heavy woolen shawl, she rocked slowly, dreamily beside the woodstove with her baby on her lap.
She opened her eyes. She smiled then, and his whole world lit up.
He grabbed a stool from the table and plunked it down beside her rocker so he could sit on it facing her, his shoulder by her knee. The stove and its welcome heat was right in front of him. “I been thinking a good bit about what popped out of me earlier. Loving you.” He didn’t know how to say what he really thought. He’d never had to before, especially not to a woman. “Been thinking—maybe it isn’t love. But if not, it’s awful close.”
She studied him. She didn’t stare, didn’t look surprised or angry or anything else. Thoughtful, if anything. He wasn’t good at reading women’s faces, but hers was about as easy to read as anyone’s. She took a long, deep breath. “Are you married?”
“No. Never have been.” He smiled. “Left home as soon as I could and grew up on a Texas ranch. You know how you have neighbors you can walk to? You don’t walk to the neighbors in Texas; the spreads are scattered too far apart. And no women.”
“You seem comfortable with Abel. The baby, too.”
“Nine little brothers and sisters. I’ve changed a diaper before.” The smile faded. “That’s part of why I said that today, I think, about loving and marrying. I like kids. I like yours, a lot.”
“You understand about homestead law?”
“Not really.”
She licked her lips. “We laid a homestead claim on this property and marked it off. We developed it—that is, built a house and barns and fences and planted fields and gardens. Ran livestock of some sort. The cow counts as livestock, and the chickens. We used to have a pig, but we ate it. In short, we met the law by settling onto our claim like we’re going to stay. If we stay on the land for five years and farm it, we prove it up. That means we gain title to it. If we leave the land, we have to start over somewhere else. That’s the Homestead Act.”
“How long have you been here?”
“This is starting into the fifth year. This land is nearly ours.” Her voice broke. “Mine.” She took another deep breath. Her voice went solid again. “You feel a need to go to your boss’s other ranch.”
“More than need. A responsibility.”
She nodded. “If I were to go with you, I would be abandoning this land before it’s proved up. Therefore I would lose it. This land is my children’s future. Their legacy. Their father worked hard to provide this for them, and so did I. I can’t leave it.”
“So it’s not just stubbornness.” He nodded. He dropped forward to prop his elbows on his knees and stare at the floor awhile. Not floor. Rug. The floor was beaten earth, but she’d made some sort of braided rug to cover most of it. And that rug—how long had it taken to braid a rug this big out of wool scraps? The rug sort of said what she was saying—an untold lot of work had gone into this place to make it a home. A home forever. And he understood.
“Why is it such a responsibility? I thought a boss was someone you worked for, got your pay, and if you decided to work somewhere else, you quit and took the other job.”
He smiled again. “That’s how it usually works, yeah. But not this time. You see, I was sort of flounderin’. Seventeen years old, never worked at anything except sharecroppin’. Helpin’ Pa in the fields. And helpin’ Ma with the little brothers and sisters.
Soon as Ellie Mae and Annie Mae were old enough to take care of the kids, I left. Pa was hoppin’ mad. With sharecroppin’, the more kids you have, the more money you can make. I promised to send money home, but I almost never did; I didn’t make enough money to send anywhere. Then Mr. Stubb sort of took me under his wing.”
“Mr. Stubb was your boss?”
The baby gurgled and stretched then began to fuss. Belle lifted her to her shoulder and rubbed her back.
Jeremiah nodded. “I came to his ranch looking for a job. No money, not a penny. Just a hungry, scrawny, grumpy kid. He fed me and hired me; took me in, really. He and the missus taught me manners, taught me ciphering, taught me about our Savior. Workin’ in the fields back home, I never would’ve learnt any of that.”
“So you owe him everything, even your eternal life.”
She did understand. What a woman! He bobbed his head. “Exactly.”
“Your father was a hard man.”
“Still is. I guess. Haven’t wrote home for a long time; don’t know if he’s livin’ or dead.” He looked at her. “What about you? What’s your story?”
She didn’t answer right away, as if she was thinking about it. Then she said, “It is incredibly difficult, maybe even impossible, for one person, man or woman, to prove up on a homestead. There’s just too much to do. Too much work. But it’s a way to own land, a farm, when you don’t have any money. My father worked for the railroad, but only three days a week. Anson’s father lost his job as a telegraph operator. Heavy drinking. So neither Anson nor I had any money. We knew each other from going to the same school. When we graduated from eighth grade.”
“Where?”
“Missouri. Independence. Anson said, ‘We can be farmers and landowners with this Homestead Act. Let’s do it. Let’s marry and do it.’ So we married, claimed here near the railroad, and…well, that was the dream.”
“Didn’t you love him at all?”
“Oh, I liked him all right. He was a masterful craftsman. Look at this rocker. Graceful looking, but solid as a rock. And the house. He built the whole house; I only helped a little because I was busy with the garden and chickens, and then with Abel.” She studied the rug, too. “And he was very good at accepting responsibility. He chose to be a family man, so he took care of his family. That has to be something to love.”
“Love? Or respect?”
She smiled and sniffed and nodded. “Respect is a much better word. Yes, I respected him and all his hard work. It must not be lost.”
His mind whirled as did his heart. He didn’t like any of this. “So the best I can see, we’re doomed.”
“Doomed?”
“I gotta go to Mr. Stubb’s ranch; you gotta stay here. I can’t let you stay here alone, but I can’t do anything else.” He shrugged. “We’re doomed.” And then he asked what he was terribly afraid to ask but had to ask anyway. “Do you love me?”
She thought a moment. He admired that in her: not just saying whatever jumped into her head, like he did so often. “I don’t know for sure. I don’t know if I ever really felt love. I think I do.” She smiled sadly. “But like you say, we’re doomed.”
Chapter 10
Jeremiah liked that Reverend Swenson fellow; he was a man of his word. Here he came up the track, driving a sleigh with two men on horseback at his side. Jeremiah laid aside the rail with which he was repairing the barn-side corral and walked out to meet them.
The reverend drove into the yard. “Mr. Jennings. Good morning.”
Rusty came bounding over, tail flailing, and barked a greeting to his friends.
“Mornin’, Reverend. Not quite sure about all this. Are you a pastor or a minister or a rector or a vicar?”
Reverend Swenson laughed. “A pastor. May I introduce Marcus Smith and Sam Barhold? They’re members of our church in town. We’ve come out to retrieve the body of poor Anson Stedman.”
“Ah, of course.”
Belle stepped out onto the porch. “Good morning, Reverend! Marcus, Sam. Coffee’s made.”
The reverend tipped his hat. “We’d like Mr. Jennings here to take us out and show us where, uh, the mortal remains are.”
She froze. And then—and this was very curious—Jeremiah could just about read her thoughts. Her heart moved from warm cheer and hospitality to sudden ice and sadness. And that was to be expected. “Of course, Reverend Swenson. Perhaps you all will stop by later.”
“We shall indeed.”
Jeremiah nodded. “I’ll saddle up.”
He hurried into the dark barn to his roan and saddled as quickly as possible. About the time his eyes were well adjusted to the gloom, he rode out into the brilliance of sun on snow. “Abel? Will you close the barn door, please?” He joined the party as the little boy darted toward the barn, and they all rode out to the east.
Now was a fine time to think of this, but he should have brought Rusty. The dog knew the way; he was not so certain, and he knew Sanchez didn’t give a fig. There were precious few landmarks to guide his way on this vast prairie.
The reverend opened conversation. “Several people in our congregation this year have suffered pneumonia. Two died. Is that what struck down Mr. Stedman?”
“S’pose so, but I’m no doctor. He rattled when he breathed. That’s usually pneumonia. But the cold had much to do with it.”
The reverend nodded. “I understand that Russia refers to this season as ‘General Winter.’ The Russian army was no match for Napoleon’s legions, but the winter cold was. It decimated the French. They were on the verge of taking Moscow—entered the city in fact—but they had to retreat because of the extreme cold. Most died on the way back to France.”
Jeremiah nodded grimly. “I see your point. Same cold as this.”
“Pretty much. Ah, Mr. Jennings, but wait until you experience spring and summer here. As close to heaven as earth ever gets. And autumn—crisp, clear, flowing gold. So to get to the beautiful seasons, if you will, we put up with the winter.”
“Unless it kills you.”
Silence.
Nice move, Jennings. You just cast a pall over the whole conversation.
Then the reverend asked, “You sound like you’ve come up from the South. The accent.”
“I have. Texas. There’s a man to whom I owe a great deal, a Mr. Stubb. He owns a ranch to the north and west of here. He asked me to take it over because of some problems there. So I’m on my way to do that.”
“I see. And you stumbled upon Anson.”
“Exactly so. Saw his campfire away up ahead, thought to warm myself, maybe share a meal.”
The reverend nodded. “He was a fine man, a good Christian. And his wife no less.”
“I figured that out, yes sir. Somebody did a fine job raisin’ the both of ’em.”
“Indeed.” The reverend seemed thoughtful. “Sometimes, though, there’s not much the parents can do if a child is wayward. Sparing the rod, applying the rod, doesn’t seem to make much difference.”
Jeremiah nodded. “That’s so. I have two brothers like that.” Where were they, anyway? This party, he meant, not his brothers. He knew where his brothers were: one was in jail and the other in Little Rock. “Can’t imagine you with a wayward boy, Reverend.”
The man smiled. “Not a boy. A niece. Always in trouble, it seems. Not trouble such as lying or stealing. Pranks. Roughhousing. She’s twelve now, and old enough to know better. To at least act like a lady.”
“I have a sister like that. You want to find her, start lookin’ up in trees. Or in the creek catching crawdads. Not where you usually see a girl, like with a doll. And go, go, go.”
“Yes! That is Cordellia, exactly. A sweet child but hardly proper.”
He was pretty sure they were still on track, because there was a low rise off to the north that he seemed to remember; had a couple scrawny little trees on it like those. But this broad, broad prairie, barely undulating, looked too much the same. Funny how he could make his way across Texas plains just as flat
as this and know exactly where he was, but this land? No.
Wait. Up ahead there. What they call a copse, a little rise with some mesquites on it. No, not mesquites this far north, but trees. Or bushes. Something. He pointed. “Let’s head over there.”
The reverend turned his sleigh aside.
An odd mound of new-fallen snow sat near the bushes. And the bushes were all cut off, as with a knife. Only the thickest branches, too stout to chop with a knife, stuck out, just as he remembered. He swung down, dropped a rein to ground-tie Sanchez, and started beating aside the mound with his hat. Yep. Here it was. Had to be God guidin’ him, because he sure wouldn’t have picked this out as the spot otherwise. There was the wagon, what was left that Stedman hadn’t burned. Three wheels, the frame, the seat boards still attached. Was there anything left of Anson Stedman?
Under the wagon frame, the snow mounded a bit, and that is where he’d left Stedman. He brushed the snow off the mound at one end. A wool scarf. Jeremiah had wrapped the head in the scarf when he laid him out.
Grimly the reverend moved in beside him. Sam and Marcus pressed in close.
Jeremiah knelt at the mound and used his hand to brush away most of the snow from the scarf, tug it up over the head to reveal the corpse’s face. Ghastly. That was the word. A strange bluish-white cast to the skin and frozen pure rock solid. His stomach flipped.
The reverend knelt and held a hand over the frozen face, muttering something. Then he said aloud, “I’m glad animals didn’t get to him. I suppose that once the remains are frozen, they don’t have much scent to attract varmints.”
Sam nodded. “’Bout how it is with cattle. I’ve looked down on many a frozen cow and calf, but it was never like this.”
“Amen,” said Marcus, and he turned away and threw up.
Jeremiah stood up and tried to move the wagon frame, give them more working room, but it was frozen fast in the old snow. Wouldn’t budge. So the four of them tugged and yanked and managed to get the body rolled out into the open.
A Pioneer Christmas Collection Page 35
